How to Cure the Common Cold
by Modern Audrey
Summary: Rogue is having a lousy day. She's sick, she's lonely...and John Allerdyce won't get out of her room! Ryro
1. Chapter 1

_Notes: Pre- X2 fic. In response to a request by PsychoTherapy17, who wanted some Pre-X2 Ryro fluff with lots and lots of fun snarkiness. Hope ya like it, Psych!_

**Chapter One**

The coughing was getting worse by the hour, Rogue reflected, pulling her dark green blanket even further over her head. That last set had probably been loud enough to have been heard two states over.

She had felt the cold coming on since the weekend. That familiar tickling in the back of her throat, the tightness in her chest… the signs were as unmistakable as they were miserable, and had had her running for chicken noodle soup, orange juice, and cough syrup as soon as she'd realized that her body was plotting against her. She'd hoped that liberal administration of each would be enough to stave off the worst of it.

She'd been wrong.

Three days and one and a half boxes of tissue later, she remained trapped in her prison of bed sheets with the heater turned up as far as she dared. For the first time in quite a while she was grateful that, in the interest of safety, she was the only girl in her year with a single resident dorm room.

It had been a rough few days, with the cold hitting her harder than it ever had before. Thankfully, the worst seemed to be over now—though she still felt truly wretched. The relentless sneezing and fever were all but past, leaving her symptoms limited to painfully intense coughing spells and occasional dizziness. As a matter of fact, she'd probably force herself out of bed tomorrow, despite Dr. Grey's admonitions. Right now, though, she just wanted one more evening to revel peacefully in her misery.

Rogue frowned hazily, uncovering her head and reluctantly sitting up in the bed. There was a ringing in her ears, and it was driving her absolutely crazy. She had been trying her best to ignore it for the last few minutes, but to no avail. What would one take for something like that, anyway? She was in the process of rummaging through the virtual pharmacy that her bedside bureau had become when the door suddenly burst open with a resounding crash. In her astonishment, Rogue managed to drop an armful of medicine bottles and throat lozenges to the floor.

Raising wide eyes to the source of the noise, she was all the more amazed to find John Allerdyce standing in the doorway. He was breathing heavily, clothing slightly askew, and looking at her with just as much shock as she imagined she was looking at him.

Rogue blinked. "Dick Tracy, I presume?"

He glared at her. Slamming the amazingly still intact door behind him as he entered the room, he moved to stand over her bed, hands fisted at his sides—restlessly opening and closing in a manner that suggested he was fighting the urge to throttle her. "What the hell is your problem?" he bit out. His hair was falling over his eyes, making him look even more unkempt than usual. Naturally, it just added to his intriguingly rebellious looks. As though he actually needed improvement. Honestly, it was enough to make a person sick. Well...sick_er._ Especially when that person looked like death warmed over, and was wearing truly garish green and yellow plaid pajamas—a gift from Jubilee, and, unfortunately, the only night-clothing she owned appropriate for fighting off a cold.

It was so typical of her life. A whole drawer full of silk and satin nighties, and the one time a gorgeous boy broke her door down to see her she was covered from top to bottom in clashing, possibly glow-in-the-dark flannel.

And was that ever an inappropriate thought for a girl with a boyfriend.

Rogue tried her best divert her wondering thoughts long enough to send a matching glower back at him; difficult, as she was experiencing double vision at the moment. "Excuse me? You're the one who just assaulted my door."

"I've been banging on that damned door for fucking five minutes straight. Why the hell didn't you answer?" He was clearly agitated. Well, she couldn't really say that she cared. She was pretty sure that she was angry with him over something, though, at the moment, she couldn't really remember what that something was.

"Oh, thank God." Rogue sighed in relief, lying back against her pillow as she tried her best to keep her eyes open. "That was you. I thought that one of the voices in my head had come up with a new way to try and drive me insane."

John tugged the pillow out from under her head, and she whimpered in protest, trying to get it back. He held it out of her reach though, and she eventually sat back against the lightly padded headboard, pouting and plotting revenge.

"Why haven't you been in Monroe's class? Or at lunch or dinner?"

She looked at him through squinted eyes, not sure if he was for real or not. "You're kidding, right? What do you think?" She gestured towards the vast number of pill bottles and loose tissue littering her bureau and floor. "Okay, you caught me. I thought I'd take a few days to organize my medicine cabinet."

He rolled his eyes, kicking the bottles out of his way as he moved to crouch by her bed, even with her eye-level. "You've got a real smart mouth, you know that?"

"Yeah? Well, you want cheerful, you can just give me my pillow back."

He actually obliged her, holding the pillow out, and Rogue snatched it away before he had the chance to change his mind. She attempted to assume a more upright position, but all she really wanted to do was roll over and sleep for another twelve hours. Against her will, her eyes started to close once again.

She felt the bed shift slightly as John braced his arms upon the mattress, hovering over her, and it was enough to snap her out of her exhaustion.

She looked up resentfully. She had finally remembered her reason for being angry with him. Or angrier than usual, anyway.

He was examining her intently, and she was once again all too aware of what a pathetic picture she must present. Her hair hadn't seen a brush in over twenty-four hours, and the dark circles under her eyes were truly massive in proportion.

"So, to what do I owe the honor of your oh-so-valuable presence?" she demanded, her cold lending an unusual throatiness to her voice. She winced, reaching for the cup of water beside her bed.

One dark eyebrow quirked derisively. "Is that supposed to mean something to me, or are you just shooting off your mouth like usual?"

If her throat wasn't currently swollen to twice its normal size, she may be tempted to laugh. The best she could manage was a weak huff. "Don't tell me you're going to pretend you haven't been ignoring me for three straight weeks, _Pyro_? I would think that'd be a stretch, even for you."

She was going for sarcastic and accusatory, but was disgusted to find that it came out sounding more hurt and spiteful than anything. Why did he have to hate her so much? And why did she let it bother her as much as it did? She had never been the type to care too much about what other people thought of her. This fixation on John's perception of her was completely out of character.

She supposed that she should be grateful for his silent treatment and outright avoidance of her. It was better than what she was used to. What kind of fool was she, to actually miss being insulted and mocked for every facet of her personality, appearance, manner of speaking, and behavior? When she had first come to the mansion, he had been so nice. Well, not really nice, but...interesting. And, she had thought, interested in her.

Talk about being mistaken.

"Even for me, huh?" John was giving her the most insolent look, and she wondered why he didn't just leave. Her head hurt—hell, her whole body hurt—and she was in no mood to deal with him at the moment. "And just what makes you think you're so special, _Rogue_, that I'd even bother to avoid you?" He studied her speculatively before continuing. "You've got a pretty high opinion of yourself, don't you? You figure that if a guy isn't constantly fawning over you, he must be trying to avoid you."

She interrupted him with a very unladylike snort. "Oh, yeah. And exactly when have you ever 'fawned' over me, Allerdyce? Why don't you just do me a favor and get lost? You've been too busy to so much as say hello to me for the past couple of days, is that it? Well, great. I'm kind of busy myself, so—" her words were cut off with a new fit of coughing, even more violent than the last.

When she finally looked up, John was hovering over her indecisively. She got the impression that he actually wanted to help, but had no idea how to go about it. Well, she knew exactly how he could help her. "I think you know where the door is, John, seeing as you nearly broke it when you came in. Go away."

She closed her eyes, trusting that he could find his own way out. By the slam of the door, he clearly had. And he hadn't put up much of an argument about it, either. Not that she cared. Another fit of coughing seized her, and she rolled onto her side, bringing her knees to her chest. Completely miserable, she closed her eyes. Maybe now she could get some sleep.

* * *

_This was actually supposed to be a one-shot, but it just got too long. So, I've divided it into three parts. Please let me know what you think! I don't write fluff for the sake of fluff a lot, so I am a little iffy on this--I would appreciate your input very much._


	2. Chapter 2

**Important!!** _(to the author, anyway):_ Okay, this is irritating me-- the title of this story _should_ be 'How to Cure the Common Cold (Without Really Trying).' However, ff dot net will not allow me to use parenthesis- or even a dash mark! - in the title. And, without something to divide the title and subtitle, it just looks stupid. So, I give up. But PLEASE continue to think of this story under the title it should have. _weeps _I'm really attached to it!

Now that I'm done whining--

* * *

**How to Cure the Common Cold (Without Really Trying)**

**Chapter Two**

Maybe an hour later, Rogue awoke, gasping for air and struggling madly against the force holding her down. It was lifted abruptly, and she sat up, ready for battle. Somehow she wasn't surprised when she saw her assailant.

"Oh, that's really classy, John," she snarled. "Trying to smother a sick girl with her own teddy bear."

"Yeah, well, the sick girl had it coming," he retorted, slinging the large stuffed animal back onto the bed next to her. "You know, you're lucky I even came back up here after that little bitch-fest earlier."

She snorted, murmuring a few choice words beneath her breath as she placed Bernard in his place of honor on the trunk at the foot of her bed, and then settled back against the pillows again. She just wasn't a 'cuddle with a teddy bear' sort of girl. Bobby had given her the bear, though, for one of those insignificant anniversaries that he liked to keep up with. The two week anniversary of the first time they'd held hands? Three months after their first date at the movies? At any rate, she felt guilty putting the poor little ball of fluff too far out of sight.

And just where was Bobby, anyway? She turned to John, mouth already halfway open to question him, but just couldn't bring herself to ask outright. It was exactly the sort of thing that he would hold over her head, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. John was looking at her now, leaned against the dresser that faced the bed with his arms crossed over his chest. His brow quirked impatiently as he waited for her to continue. She closed her mouth, glancing away and chewing on her bottom lip briefly before arriving at an acceptable alternate route to the information she desired.

"So," she began, keeping her voice deceptively casual. "I'm surprised that you didn't already know I was sick when you came in here earlier. I'd have thought Bobby would have said something about it."

"Is that right? Well, Bobby-boy's been a little...preoccupied lately." She was surprised at the venom in his voice, and, from the slightly contrite expression on his face, it must have showed. John exhaled roughly, turning his back to her and crossing the short distance to her bookshelf, where he began to examine her few personal knick-knacks and photos as though he were seeing them for the first time. Come to think of it, he might as well be. He hadn't been inside her room since before she and Bobby began to date, and that had been several months ago.

Back then, John had been so different. She'd actually thought he liked her—_really _liked her. Boy, had she ever been wrong on that count.

Rogue could still remember every single time he had come up to her room to visit. She would invariably be lying back against her pillows, just as she was now, with her heart racing. John usually ended up sitting backwards in the chair at her desk, arms rested against the back end and staring intently at her as she did her best to keep up a conversation. He seemed to make a game out of providing only one-word answers, and smirking knowingly as she attempted to maintain her cool. Finally she would exhaust herself of topics, and then just sit there—awkwardly playing with her gloves, and looking everywhere but at him. That's when he would leave, stopping briefly in the doorway to wink at her before walking out without a word.

Each time he came by, she had prayed for some small sign that he was interested in more than just teasing her...reveling in just how easily he could make her sweat. It never came, though, and she eventually got tired of sitting around, attempting to look pretty as he made a fool out of her. She had stopped inviting him up to her room, and finally given in to Bobby's advances. She supposed that was why John resented her so much. He probably couldn't find another girl to giggle and blush over him, and give him something to brag about to the other boys.

Rogue sighed, pushing back the surge of humiliation stirred by memories of her ill-fated crush on John. He was still at her bookcase, sifting through the pages of a partially completed essay that she had left sitting on the far corner. She bit back the urge to order him away from her paper. He was constantly attempting to cheat off of her. "Preoccupied? What do you mean? Because of me being sick?"

His only response was a shrug, and she observed that his jaw had tensed a bit. She couldn't help but wonder why he was even here if he was going to be so damned irritable every time she opened her mouth. Maybe he actually felt guilty for being such a bastard lately, and this visit was some sort of awkward, inept attempt at an apology. It seemed as likely an explanation as anything. John would do anything to avoid actually saying that he was sorry about something.

"But," she continued, forehead scrunching a bit, "I don't get it. If he's worried about me being sick, why doesn't he just come up and see me? The only time I even remember him coming by to visit was the day before yesterday, and that was only for ten minutes."

John said nothing, focusing all of his attention on the paper in his hands. She frowned, idly wondering if he was memorizing it for later. Then an idea occurred to her, and she let the thought go as a smile spread across her face. "You know what? I'm a moron."

He turned to face her at last, finally displaying some measure of visible interest in her words.

"I mean," she continued, still smiling delightedly. "I've been sitting here worrying about why he hasn't come by, and I just realized that I've been doing nothing but sleeping for the last three days. I was probably just sleeping too deeply to hear him knock on the door."

John looked at her for a moment, disbelief and anger coloring his expression. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them he was glaring at her. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

She stared, shocked, before her eyes narrowed. So much for this visit being some sort of attempt at reconciliation. "John," she started, voice deceptively calm. "Would you like to tell me what the hell you're even doing here?" She exhaled deeply, running a bare hand through pillow-mussed hair and scowling even more deeply at the tangles she encountered. Her voice climbed in volume as she continued. "I mean, I don't get it. You burst in here, and burst out, and then back in again...and for what? I didn't ask for your company, you know. I don't need you coming in here, waking me up and insulting me. What you need to do is decide right now, are you my friend or aren't you? Because I'm getting sick of this back-and-forth bullshit."

His response was...nothing. He simply cocked a brow at her, expression plainly stating his disregard for her feelings. He just looked so damned above it all. And then he finally spoke, sneering as he looked at her.

"Are you done yet?"

Her water abruptly flew at his head. John saw it coming easily, and Rogue watched—entranced despite her anger—as he raised one hand, lighter igniting at a truly amazing speed. The flame burst out, meeting the liquid. Steam rose as it evaporated on impact, and the glass shattered, sending shards splintering to the floor.

Rogue could only stare, impressed—and slightly annoyed about her carpet. "Wow."

He nodded, face suffused with characteristic masculine smugness. "Yeah. Pretty impressive, huh?"

Yeah, it was. She wasn't going to tell him that, though; she refused to allow herself to bought off with a parlor trick. Instead she turned her face away from him, opening her bedside drawer and digging through it for a pair of gloves.

"I guess it's a neat enough trick," she sighed, affecting intense boredom. Then she glanced up briefly, feigning enthusiasm. "But, you know, I saw Bobby doing that exact same trick last week—with ice of course."

John nodded sarcastically. "Oh, of course."

"I'm just saying, you should have been there," she inserted a gushing tone into her voice as she bragged over her boyfriend. "Do you know what he did afterwards? He formed the ice into a little heart, and etched our names onto it. Now, _that_ was impressive."

She was lying, of course. Still, her comment had the desired effect. He drew back as if burned—ironic, that—lips curling into a sneer. "Fucking unoriginal is what it was."

She made a show of ignoring him, still pawing through her bureau. Silk and satin were fine under normal circumstances, but right now she was cold, and sick, and just freaking miserable. She wanted her comfort gloves. The green cotton ones, with black edging. Where the hell had she put them?

Abruptly, the drawer slammed shut—just barely missing her hand. She jerked back, glaring furiously at John. "What the hell was that about?"

He crouched next to her, holding her gaze as he shoved her back against her pillow. Weak from the combined effects of the cold and the medication, she could do little more than glare at him kittenishly, and be grateful for the padding on the headboard.

You know what your problem is, Rogue?" he bit out, staring her down.

She tried to summon the energy to sit forward, but it just wasn't there. "At the moment, I think it would be you."

"Your problem," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, "is that you don't even realize it when you're dealt the same bullshit, over and over again."

"Care to elaborate?" she inquired dispassionately, and his eyes narrowed as he leaned forward—face mere inches from hers.

"Oh yeah. I'd fucking _love_ to elaborate."

Her mouth opened into a small gasp as all of the oxygen abruptly left her lungs. There was a look on John's face that she didn't like at all.

Or, maybe she did like it. And that was even more terrifying.

His eyes remained locked with hers, and his brow arched challengingly. His face seemed closer than it had before as he held her gaze. It was a standoff, of sorts—and she was suddenly aware that it had been building for quite a while.

Rogue could feel her pulse increasing as John moved closer and closer...just centimeters separating them now. She made no move to stop him.

In the end, it was her body that saved her. Her hands shot up, planting squarely on his chest as she pushed him back with all her might. He stumbled, and she leaned forward, face buried in her hands as she coughed furiously. It hurt—badly—and she brought her knees up, hugging them against her chest. She held the position for a few moments, willing her throat to stop aching and the little black dots dancing before her eyes to fade.

Through the haze, she felt John's hand settle on her back, rubbing awkwardly. She shot up instantly, eyes blazing as she slapped his hand away.  
"I know that I said it before, but now I'm serious. I really, really think you should leave."

His jaw clenched, eyes hardening at her tone. "Oh, you do, do you?

Rogue threw her covers off and stood, unmindful that the force with which they flew back nearly knocked over her lamp. She faced him, hands braced on her hips as she practically snarled at him. "Just what the hell did you think you were doing, John?"

His face first reflected incredulity, followed quickly by scorn. "Oh, I get it. This is the part where you pretend that you weren't ready to jump me less than two minutes ago, right? Why am I not surprised?"

She moved forward abruptly, bare hands tangling in the folds of his jacket to give him a hard push backwards towards the door. "You're delusional if you think I had the slightest interest in kissing you. I just happened to be hopped up on cough syrup at the moment."

Her shoves were largely ineffectual. John swatted her away easily, catching her bare hands in his. For the first time, Rogue noticed that he was wearing gloves, and it gave her pause. She still struggled to free her hands, but she'd drained enough energy merely standing. At the moment, she felt about as strong as a limp dishrag. She wouldn't have stood a chance against a five year old.

John was sneering at her, maintaining his grip easily. "So, you were 'hopped up on cough medicine', huh?"

She nodded, glaring at him fiercely.

"You '_were'_ hopped up on cough medicine?"

"That's what I just said, isn't it?" she bit out, making one last, failed, attempt to free her hands from his steady hold.

"So, what you're saying is, you aren't anymore?"

Her eyes widened slightly, and she began to struggle once more. It was too late, though. He tightened his hold on her hands, pulling her to him roughly as his lips touched hers for the first time.

Rogue liked to think that she would have fought back, if she weren't immobilized with shock. But, considering the miniscule amount of time that it took for her to begin to respond to him—giving back as good as she got, and more—even she doubted the merit of that particular excuse. All she knew was, kissing John was even more fun than arguing with him.

His lips were silky and scorching and succulent against hers. They moved over hers with infuriating assurance—never hesitating for a moment. It was clear that he felt he had every right to kiss her like he was. Rogue would argue with him about that later, just on genuine principle. Right now, though... she really, _really _didn't want to interrupt him. Her head was spinning, both from the force of John's kiss and the heady feel of her mutation drawing him indolently inside of her. And the thoughts that were running though his head at the moment...well, they definitely weren't helping her to think clearly, that was for sure.

He had finally let go of her hands, and she was gripping onto the lapels of his jacket for dear life. His own had come up to entangle in her hair, alternately smoothing and tugging at the multi-toned tresses. One hand loosed its hold upon her hair, and a strong arm came around to encircle her waist. Rogue moaned softly against his mouth, pressing her body even closer to his in an effort to remain upright. It was as if her entire plane of existence began and ended upon his lips.

It was she who pulled away first—not because of her mutation, but because of a severe lack of oxygen. John staggered slightly, and she frantically backed him up until his knees hit the bed. He fell backwards, and she ended up on her knees beside him, sobered quickly by the intermingled concern and confusion racking her body.

_...What had she been thinking?_

John was a living force inside of her, climbing in and out of her mind and spreading throughout her consciousness. Assimilation of any sort was out of the question, though; there just wasn't time. She pushed him back mentally, panic doubing her shielding ability—and, boy, he did _not _seem to care for that—as she reached into the bedside drawer.

This time sparing little concern for color or fabric, Rogue grabbed the first pair of gloves she came into contact with. They were mismatched, but she didn't care. Her newly clothed fingers traced gently up and down John's cheeks, and then began to sift through his hair as she gazed at him anxiously.

He stirred after a few minutes, eyes opening as he breathed heavily. His mouth moved, but she couldn't quite make out what he was trying to say. She leaned closer, long hair brushing against his chest as she struggled to understand him.

John closed his _eyes_ again, tongue coming out to moisten his lips. His very full, very swollen lips. When he opened them again, he was grinning at her.

"I always knew you'd taste like strawberries."

* * *

_Sighs. _Believe it or not, this is the first actual kissing scene I've written. That I've posted, anyway. PLEASE let me know what you think of it. I'm so self-conscious about it, you have NO idea.

So, so many thanks to those who reviewed last chapter:

_Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Dama Jade, Mea-kh, Levanna, The Truth About Roses, Rosebleed, Zshp1411, Cestari, RedMagic, Coletterby, Rogue21493_...

--You're fantastic, and I'm positively mad about you all!

_One more chapter to go!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**How to Cure the Common Cold (Without Really Trying)**_

**Chapter Three**

Rogue just looked at him, disbelief and embarrassment coloring her expression—trying to ignore the fact that all of the blood in her body had suddenly relocated to her cheeks. Naturally, it was a losing battle. She huffed in exasperation and made to stand up. Before she could get very far, though, John had grasped a fistful of her hair, pulling her back down again.

She fought the urge to hit him, and only just barely came out victorious. He was wounded, after all.

"You could have told me you weren't _dying_, you know. I was about to run for Dr. Grey." She affected a sing-song voice, mocking herself. "'Hey, Dr. Grey? I just put another boy in a coma. I thought you oughtta know.'" Rogue shook her head. "Oh, yeah. That would've been fun."

John smirked slightly, breath leaving his lips in a silent laugh. "I don't know. Personally, I can't think of a better way to go down."

Rogue scowled at him. "Oh, yeah, like I haven't heard that one a thousand times. And, you know what?" she bit out. "Each time I hear it, it gets a little. Less. Funny."

"Yeah? Good. It wasn't meant to be funny." His grip on her hair loosened, and she moved to lean back against her pillows, eyes closing as she was suddenly overwhelmed with the exhaustion that inevitably followed any excessive use of her powers. John's absorbed persona was buzzing around beneath the temporary mental field she had erected, clearly not happy with being pent up. The effort of holding him back was, all at once, too much for her. She focused her remaining strength on letting him out—but gradually, as the Professor had taught her. Slowly enough to avoid overwhelming her own psyche.

Lots of people imagined that she absorbed entire personalities and life histories. That wasn't strictly true; really, it was more like getting a sampler of different individual facets and memories. A little bit of everything, and so jumbled and expansive that she usually couldn't put the pieces together into a comprehensible order even if she wanted to. Which she absolutely didn't.

The experience was no different with John. No different except that, in the past, she had invariable resented the overflow of other people's thoughts and feelings into her brain. With John, amazingly, she almost enjoyed it. One thing was for sure—it had definitely put a new spin on things.

* * *

She thought that she may have drifted off for a few minutes. Maybe a half an hour, but definitely no more than that. At some point, John must have hauled himself up from the foot of the bed. He now lay across from her, head on her pillow. They weren't touching, but they may as well have been. When she opened her eyes, his face was the first thing that she saw.

It was an unsettling, but not altogether unpleasant, way to wake up.

Rogue scrunched her eyes closed—not sure if he was awake or not. If he was, she wasn't ready to deal with him.

If he wasn't... she still wasn't ready to deal with him.

She could feel him inside of her, moving about in her mind. For once, the sensation didn't disturb her. It was almost nice, in a very disturbing sort of way. Her whole body felt wired—somehow, more _alive _than it had before.

Warm.

Tingly.

_Weird._

One eyelid raised hesitantly...covertly. Only to find John staring back at her, brows arched lightly. Lips curved into a knowing smirk. Blue eyes laughing at her.

Rogue sighed, officially dropping the pretense of sleep, and rolled over onto her back—abandoning the comfort of the pillow, but for the greater good of putting a little distance between them. And hopefully doing so in a sufficiently subtle matter. If she had held out any doubt that John was aware of his effect on her, all she had to do was examine the absorbed thoughts she now carried about in her mind. With the first touch of his lips against hers, that hope had been virtually annihilated.

And, oh boy, now was most definitely not the time to think about his kiss. Not when they were lying on her bed. Not when the sun—the only source of light in the room—was slowly fading outside of her window, leaving them bathed in only the dimmest of light. And most definitely not while his hot little thoughts were jumping around beneath her skin, telling her everything that she had wanted to hear from the very first day she had entered Ms. Munroe's classroom. Her eyes closed, seemingly of their own volition, and she latched onto the first coherent thought she could find.

"How long has Bobby been cheating on me?" And, come to think of it, that was a really damned good question. One that she would like to know the answer to, and in great detail. She needed to know just how hard to slap him the next time she saw him, after all.

She felt rather than saw John's hand lift to tangle in the ends of her hair—still spread out across the pillow next to him. "You picked up on that, huh?"

She snorted inelegantly, sending him a dirty look—but making no attempt to free her hair from his soothing grasp. "Bits and pieces. Among other things. And you needn't attempt to sound so sympathetic and regretful. I happen to know for a fact that you're just _delighted _with this whole damn situation."

His hand tightened in her hair, tugging gently in retaliation, and she smacked it away. "I asked you a question, John. Are you going to answer me, or am I going to have to go back in for more information?" She winced as soon as the words left her mouth, and, of course, he didn't miss a beat. She was thankfully spared from the usual sarcastic remark, but the salacious grin he offered in its place was almost worse. Rogue rolled her eyes—really more annoyed with herself than she was with him.

What kind of idiot was she? How could she not have realized that her 'perfect' boyfriend had been messing around with her supposed best friend behind her back?

And, more importantly, how had she missed the fact that the bane of her existence was madly in love with her?

God, she was confused. And hurt. And happy. And then confused again. She was completely wrung out, both emotionally and physically, and all of the stress of the last few hours suddenly burst out with all the callousness of a match striking flint. "Damn it, John, I want to know how long my boyfriend has been fooling around with Kitty Pryde, and I want to know now. Why do you keep stalling?" She sat up, batting his hands away as the betrayal really hit home. "Why won't you answer my question?"

John's expression—which had, in the last few minutes, been more open than she ever remembered seeing it—rapidly closed off. He glowered at her, arms crossing over his chest as he lay back against her pillows. "'Why don't I answer your question?' Fuck. Why don't you quit your bitching for five seconds and answer a question for me, huh Roguey? How come, of all the shit you leeched out of my brain, the first and only thing you're fixating on here is Bobby _fucking _Drake?" His gaze remained fixed upon her reproachfully, full lips pulled thin as his teeth locked into a visible grind.

Suddenly, it was all Rogue could do not to smile. Her thoughtlessness had hurt his manly pride. How cute was that? Distracted from her anger, she hesitantly returned to her position, lying down on the bed. This time closer than before, and facing him.

When John made no move to look at her, she scooted even closer, tugging at his crossed arms until he looked up—glare still firmly in place. She shamelessly drew upon his absorbed memories, easily finding the one expression—somewhere between 'tremulous, pre-crying jag' and 'puppy-dog pathetic'—guaranteed to make him cave. It worked like a charm, of course. He rolled his eyes, and then stretched an arm nonchalantly along the top of the pillow next to him.

It could easily be mistaken for a casual attempt to find a more comfortable position on the bed. But it wasn't. She knew it, and he knew it. All it would take was one move on her part, and their relationship—as it were—would be irrevocably altered.

Rogue chewed her bottom-lip nervously, hesitant to take that final leap.

He really was a jerk.

_'Yeah, _came the echo of his persona, now permanently etched into her subconscious. _I really am. _

If he had irritated her before, when she had only seen him on the odd occasions that they both happened to be hanging out with Bobby at the same time, imagine how much he would bother her as her boyfriend.

_'I fully intend to drive you insane at every possible opportunity.' _

She didn't doubt it in the least.

_'You shouldn't. You know, you're fucking hot when you're fighting the impulse to kick my ass.' _

Damn him. He was still lying there, watching her. Lips curved into a smirk, blue eyes mocking her. He didn't doubt for a moment that she was going to take him up on his offer. Not for a single moment.

_'As if you could resist me if you tried.' _

He had a point.

_'And have you even noticed that you haven't coughed once since you kissed me—' _

Rogue scowled. " _You _kissed _me!_"

John frowned. "Yeah... I kissed you. That just sinking in?"

_'Since _you_ kissed _me_, you haven't coughed once. That's me, baby. I'm the best anti-cold remedy you'll ever take.' _

God, that did it. How much could a girl be expected to take? Shaking with laughter, Rogue ignored John's outstretched arm—instead choosing to settle easily on top of him. But not before kicking out blindly with one sock-clad foot. At the end of the bed, Bernard toppled from his place of honor.

One of Rogue's hands came up to entangle in John's hair, and she nuzzled her face against his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."

Over her head and inside of her head, John smiled.

* * *

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At last, we reach the end... Please, please let me know what you think! It took me several hours to write this, and it would take you...what? thirty seconds to leave me a comment? Believe me, I appreciate every piece of feedback I receive, so... ;)

And, to my lovely reviewers... my deepest apologies for not thanking you each individually, as I am accostomed to. I'm running a bit short on time tonight, and I figured that you would rather go ahead and be reading the fic than wait 'til tomorrow. My apologies--won't happen again--and my thanks for your past and continued comments:)


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